Page 39 of Can't Stop Watching


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Dane freezes instantly. One moment he's pressed against me like he wants to devour me, and the next he's backing away so fast he nearly trips over my coffee table. The transformation is jarring.

"Shit. Shit." He scrubs a hand over his face, not meeting my eyes. "I'm sorry. Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, Lila."

My heart still races, but now from confusion as much as anything else. I tug my dress down, trying to gather myself. My throat feels strange where his hand had been—not hurt, just... marked somehow.

"It's okay," I say automatically, though I'm not entirely sure it is. The whiplash of going from turned on to terrified to confused has my head spinning.

"No, it's not." He turns away, hiding his face from me. His shoulders rise and fall with deep, controlled breaths. "I shouldn't have—I got carried away. That's not... That's not how I wanted this to go."

I adjust my dress, buying time while my brain tries to catch up. Part of me wants to run to the bathroom and lock the door. Another part wants to tell him it's fine, that I overreacted. The most fucked-up part still wants him, even after that moment of fear, which would be unjustified if not for Mr. Colton. Anger fills me from so dark corner I haven't visited in a long time.

"Do you always manhandle women like that?" The words come out sharper than I intended, my default sarcasm kicking in as a defense mechanism.

"It's not… I..." He turns back, face grim. "I can be intense, but never the first time. Never without asking."

Something about the absolute certainty in his voice makes me believe him. His eyes look tortured, like he's seeing something terrible reflected in mine.

"You…" He shakes his head. "It's no excuse, but you drive me crazy, Lila. But I realize I crossed a line," he says, voice low. "I went too far. I didn't—" He stops, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I scared you."

"You did," I admit, hand moving to my throat. "For a second there."

We stand in awkward silence, the air between us thick with unspoken things. The mood has curdled, turning what was hot and electric into something uncomfortable and strange.

"I should go," Dane says finally.

Part of me wants to agree. The smart part. The self-preservation part that's gotten me through worse situations than this.

But another part—the part that saw how quickly he backed off, how genuine his remorse seems—wants to understand what just happened.

"Why did you do that?" I ask, voice steadier than I feel.

Dane stands there, mouth opening then closing without sound, like he's searching for words in a language he doesn't speak. His eyes avoid mine, fixed somewhere over my left shoulder.

"I don't know if I can explain it right," he finally says, voice rough.

I wait, hand still at my throat, giving him the rope to either pull himself up or hang himself with. My heart's still hammering like I've just sprinted up all five flights of stairs.

"I normally know how to control my… urges, but the way I want you..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "It's different. Something I've never felt before."

"Different how?" I press, not letting him off the hook with vague bullshit. Different like all men say when they're trying to justify acting like animals? Different like Mr. Colton said I was special?

Dane finally meets my eyes, and the raw honesty there catches me off guard.

"It's primal," he says. "I've been with women, obviously. But this..." He gestures between us. "I've never felt this kind of pull. It's like you flipped some switch I didn't even know I had."

Under different circumstances, those words might have melted me. Now, they just make me wary.

"So what, I'm supposed to be flattered that you lost it?" A hint of bartender-Lila meanness creeps in, the version of me that deals with drunk frat boys and handsy businessmen.

"Fuck, no." He shakes his head sharply. "That's not—I know I fucked up. Badly." His voice drops. "I would understand completely if you never wanted to see me again."

The sincerity in his tone makes my chest tighten. He's not making excuses or trying to minimize what happened. He's owning it.

God, I'm so screwed up. Because part of me—the deeply damaged part that should know better—still wants him. Still remembers how good his hands felt before fear crashed the party.

"I should probably be kicking you out right now," I say quietly.

"You should," he agrees.